


These Shattered Thoughts

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:31:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1792240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The night Berwald leaves him, Matthias is left angry, desperate, and raging drunk. Driving away from his troubles, his life is changed forever when he crashes into the car of a certain Norwegian, maiming both the passenger and his heart. Dennor, Sufin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction for Hetalia, and I've very excited and nervous! Please excuse any slight OOCness, I promise I'll try to get better at pinning down the characters' personalities as this story goes along!

“Ye went overboard again.”

  
That's the first thing Matthias hears as he steps into their shared apartment, slipping off his boots. Sighing loudly, the blond runs a hand through his tousled hair before turning to face the speaker—one angry Swede, Berwald Oxenstierna.

  
“It was a one time thing.” He waves a hand through the air as if to dismiss the matter, and instead pushes his way rather roughly past his boyfriend to flop down on the couch, tired from a day of work. Picking up the remote, he casually turns himself away from Berwald and towards the television screen.

  
Matthias hears shuffling, and the next thing he finds is a tall, looming Swede glaring down at him. With a look that would've scared most people away, Matthias only returns the gaze with an air of indifference. Truth be told, events like this had been happening a lot more lately, and though it affected both of them at first, now it was more of an everyday thing to go through before dinner.

  
“So what if I went out drinking with Gilbert?” Giving an exasperated sigh, the Dane leaned forwards. “We celebrated his promotion.”

  
“Where'd ye get the money?” Berwald growled.

  
Matthias gave a nervous laugh. Oh, he didn't have an excuse this time. “So I may have borrowed from the bank...” As Berwald's face darkened, he quickly spoke up again. “But paychecks come in next week! I promise I'll pay back then.”

  
“'nd what 'bout the other f've times?” Between his fingers, Berwald holds an envelope that is clearly addressed to one Matthias Kohler. Eyeing it nervously, Matthias pipes up.

  
“Still working on that.” He shrugs. “What's it matter to you, anyway?”

  
Perhaps that had not been the best thing to say. The Swedish man looks enraged, though the only sign is a slightly darkened expression—something that worries Matthias more than it should. Usually, Berwald would sigh and give him a lecture for a while, and after many promises to pay back the debt, make dinner, and make up for his mistake in _other ways_ , they would be alright again until the next mini-battle.

  
“'m done.”

  
The words are spoken so quietly that the Dane does not catch them at first, straining to hear as he slowly shuffles closer. “What?”

“Said 'm done.” Berwald repeats slightly louder, his glare increasing in ferocity.

Matthias claps his hands, immediately relining into the folds of his beloved couch. “Great! Love you as always; what's for dinner?”

Berwald's sudden hand on his shoulder stops him suddenly, and the confused Dane looks up to see the Swede hovering above him with certainty clear in his ice-blue eyes. Finding the gaze too timetaking to challenge, Matthias decides to flicker around the room—wait, was that a suitcase?

He watches as Berward retracts, crossing the room in a few swift strides. His grip around the suitcase is firm, his head down. The Swede pauses momentarily to push his glasses up his nose, and Matthias takes this time to question his lover. “Berwald...” he says, unsure how to continue, “what's going on?”

The addressed only glares at him before marching over and shoving the envelope in his direction.  
  
“Goodbye, Matthias,” he says softly, almost sadly, before turning on his heels and rolling his small suitcase through the hallway. The Dane stands frozen, his hands gripping the envelope like a lifeline as he watches his boyfriend pull on his shoes, carry the suitcase down the steps, and disappear out the door in the span of a few seconds.

Without ever looking back.

It is only until a full minute after Berwald disappears behind the heavy oaken door that Matthias snaps to his senses, throwing the envelope to the ground.

“How long?” he demands to the thin air before him. “How long has he been planning this? He didn't just wake up today and realise 'oh, I'm going to leave my boyfriend today!' So how long?”

Then it dawns on him that Berwald had probably been planning this for a very long time—after all, he did live through a full year with the Swede and knew a few of the other's habits. Berwald didn't act out of impulsiveness—only after he was completely certain and utterly frustrated did he do something drastic like this. So this could only mean two things; one, that he was not coming back, and two, that Matthias had been failing in his duty as a lover for quite some time now.  
As if that didn't make him feel worse.

Slowly, he bends down to retrieve the fallen envelope, crinkled by his sudden and desperate rage. Ripping open the thing—he had never cared for slowly and neatly opening letters, as Berwald was so prominent in doing—he finds a check tucked neatly within.

From one Berwald Oxenstierna to one Matthias Kohler. A check for five hundred dollars.

That day, Berwald left Matthias with nothing but a few words and some money to help him get back on his feet.

The Dane falls back into the couch, all his energy suddenly drained. “Good going, Matthias,” he says halfheartedly. “You really scored this time.”

With nothing but the background sound of the television to accompany him, Matthias realises that his apartment seems all too big. The man leans forwards, cradling his head between his hands for a moment. Finally, he switches off the TV and looks up, not caring about his messed up hair.

“I need to get wasted.”

~~~

Matthias staggered from the exit of the dingy nightclub, waving away the concerned personnel who had insisted he stay behind.

“M' be fine,” he slurred, flapping a hand as he ordered the faceless strange away. Longing for another drink, Matthias growled at the memory of the barista refusing to give him another shot, and fumbled for his keys clumsily. Finally managing to open the door of his car without accidentally hitting himself, Matthias threw himself into the driver seat with an aching leg where the door had slammed on the first attempt. After a few minutes spent trying not to fall asleep and recomposing himself, Matthias jammed the keys and started up the engine. The radio started up immediately, a catchy pop song about boys, boys, and more boys that he would've normally scorned at played loud over his speakers. This time, he found himself letting loose a small giggle—wow, he was really lightheaded. Couldn't be that bad, he only had a _few_ drinks. Yeah, he'd be fine to drive. His apartment wasn't too far away and he doubted any of his friends would appreciate a call at 12 AM to come pick him up.

Usually it had been Berwald doing these things, even once at 4AM to him, Gilbert, and—it was such a rare occasion, really—Ludwig, who they'd managed to drunk completely senseless.

“What an achievement,” he sighed at the memory, momentarily closing his eyes to try to relieve the pure enjoyment that had been that moment. Nevermind that Berwald had looked tired and frustrated—he'd been forgiven the next day, Matthias was sure. Or not too sure.

Maybe it was that his eyes had been closed just a moment too long, or that his hands had suddenly jerked in laughter, but everything happened in a blur that he hardly remembered, the memory crushed by the strong influence of alcohol. One moment he had been off imagining the past, the music blaring distantly in his ears. Suddenly, there was a loud honk, the crushing screech of tires against the road in a desperate attempt to avoid collision, and the next thing he knew he sat stunned, mind completely blank as he looked down at his hands, gripping the driving wheel so tightly his knuckles were turning white. Before him lay a car in shatters, the side completely destroyed. What happened? His own car was firmly planted in the other's side, his front crushed. Lights were flashing, horns were blaring, and he caught sight of the driver—a young man shake the person next to him. There was a scream, a call for help, as cars begin to slow down all around.

“Sir? Sir?”

Someone was speaking to him.

“Mister, are you okay?”

“What did you _do_?”

“Someone get an ambulance!”

“Has anyone called the police?”

“ _Oh Dios_ , look at the kid!”

“Ambulance! Ambulance, now!”

His head was spinning, faces too blurry to make out anymore. The sounds rang all around, only making his headache worse until they rose in a symphony of noise, until he wanted to scream at the world to shut up.

It was too much. Matthias fell, blacking out before his head slammed onto the wheel, letting out a lasting honk that rang over the crash scene.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more of Sufin in this chapter. I promise, Norway will appear soon!

**Chapter Two**

“Name?”

Even if it wasn't intended, the policeman standing by Mathias' bedside was certainly imposing in his personal space. Mathias wasn't short nor weak by any standard, but considering the recent events he hardly could muster up the strength to speak right now. The other wore a tired expression upon his features, his otherworldly eyebrows scrunched up as he glared holes into the paper before him. Like everyone else, Officer Kirkland, as he had introduced himself as, probably just wanted to go home and forget this tiresome matter.

“Mathias Kohler.” He repeated the words he'd been saying to every single official that had passed.

The blond man jotted something down in his notepad. “Do you have an emergency contact?”

At this, Matthias bit his lip. There was actually no one he could call; he doubted his parents back in Denmark would be able to help—and he really didn't want them to find out he'd been driving drunk. Gilbert was probably getting himself raging drunk, as he was prone to do any other day of the week. And Berwald...

Sighing, Matthias shuffled a hand roughly though his messed hair. Wincing where his fingers had unintentionally poked the large bruise on his forehead, born from his rather forceful slam into the car wheel, he spoke slowly.

“Berwald Oxenstierna.” He'd have to do some explaining later on.

“Number?”  
After giving the digits, Officer Kirkland seemed satisfied. Mathias had already been questioned earlier by a hospital nurse, and with instructions to let him rest until the next day, the police officer readied himself to leave. He gave the Dane an official nod of his head, though there was no warmth in his gaze. As the man left, Mathias could have sworn he saw a dirty look shot his way.

Then again, he probably deserved that. Leaning back on the fluffy hospital pillows, Mathias closed his eyes and began to run over the events of the last few hours in his head.

It was midnight. He'd been drinking. He'd crashed into another car.

 _Now that wasn't too hard, was it?_ _h_ e asked himself. Just facts. Cold, hard facts.

The difficultly lay in what came afterwards. The crushing guilt of realising that he had hit someone, that whoever he had rammed into this fateful night could be in danger.

Mathias didn't know anything about the other car. He'd passed out too quickly, both from shock and intoxication, and when he'd woken he was lying in a hospital bed with a nurse that frowned down on him with disapproval written clear in her features.

 _Useless being._ Her glance had said more than words ever could. _You injured someone, and yet we fight to sustain your life._

There was the crushing guilt and light curiosity to deal with, of course. He wondered about the other car, the people that no one had spoken to him about. Were they alright? Which hospital had they been whisked off to?

He found himself thinking of the one man he had spotted before being rendered unconscious—the driver, a rather young, pretty looking fellow with light blond hair and blue eyes. And the person beside him? The driver had turned before Mathias could spot his features completely, but he was enchanted. He wanted to make sure they were okay. He wasn't sure he could live with himself if they had been grievously injured, or even worse...

Mathias shook the despairing thoughts from his head and struggled with the bed, eventually lifting himself into a sitting position, albeit his legs were captured by the bland white sheets. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of getting up. He wasn't injured—he hadn't been the one hit. The most stressful injury probably was the large bruise on his head—giving him quite a headache—from when he's slammed down on the wheel, and a few scrapes and bruises from the force of the collision.

He'd crashed into the passenger side. He can remember that. Suddenly, the finality of the situation caught up to him. Berwald always said his constant drinking would get him into trouble, no matter how extreme; and now it had. He had been driving when he wasn't even supposed to, fuelled by some idiotically egoistic thought that he would be okay.

“It was only a few drinks, huh?” he repeated his earlier thoughts to himself, wishing more than anything he could've gone back in time and changed things. Stopped himself from getting into that car, driving down that one particular road.

More than anything, he wanted to go back even further. To when he and Berwald first met, to when things were still golden and every fight between them had only been light, teasing. Perhaps once he'd gone back and realised what had gone wrong he could change things, model himself into that perfect man the Swede had once placed all his hopes on. His drinking ruined more than his relationship; it'd taken everything—his beloved, his body, his pride, and now his freedom. Surely he couldn't get out of a crash like that without some sort of sentence, and whether it be jailtime or a fine both were things Mathias could not deal with right now.

So he cried. He slumped down on the bed, between the thin sheets. He cried until his eyes were red and raw and even then reality didn't fade. _I need a drink,_ he thought, and almost laughed because it was just funny, so, so funny that the very thing that had gotten him into this mess was the one thing that could save him from his current downward spiral of thoughts.

And even when his sobs had echoed all through the nights, haunting the hallways, no one came. He hugged the sheets to his chest, desperately wishing for another body—some warmth to come and comfort him. He was suddenly all alone, so alone. Even after his sobs faded to small sniffles and then absolutely nothing, no one came to check if he was okay.

He preferred it that way. Then he didn't have to explain that he was not the victim of some unfortunate crime but rather the criminal, and would have to suffer as such.

* * *

 

Berwald stood at the foot of the shop, mentally urging himself to go in. _C'mon,_ he thought. _Can't be th't hard._ He took a step forward, sucked in a breath, and repeated the process until he was standing before the door. Then, slowly, he extended a hand and rather forcefully pulled open the translucent door

His action was accompanied by the soft twinkle of bells, though he was more drawn towards the pearl of laughter that had resounded through the room a few seconds later. Turning, Berwald found the one reason he'd stopped at this shop every day for the past week.

At the counter stood the most perfect man Berwald had ever laid eyes to, with wide, soft violet eyes. His blond hair fell in soft locks all around his rounded face, giving the impression of a cherub. Although, Berwald thought with a faint chuckle, though Tino—for that was the male's name—was adorable in every which way and was kind to babies, animals, and every single person in general, the man himself was not quite innocent as looks be. Berwald had first met him at the shooting range, introduced through their shared friend, and the first impression Tino had made was by telling Berwald that if the other dared to interrupt his round, then the next target the Fin would find would be Berwald's heart.

“And,” Tino had told him with a soft, angelic smile. “I can hit pretty spot on.”

With that, he turned around and hit dead centre in the middle of the paper target's forehead, and Berwald fell in love.

And he'd gotten to know the Fin, through a series of emails and phone calls exchanged when Mathias wasn't home—and the Dane was frequently out, almost always wasting the day away drinking with his self-declared 'Prussian' friend. He found that Tino was not nearly as violent in real life as he had been while on the shooting range—there, he almost seemed like a completely different person. In everyday life, the Fin was simply a cheerful, wonderful flower shop owner that enjoyed the little things in life and saw the beauty in everything and everyone. He was so beautiful, so caring and just so _pure_ that Berwald felt his dingy life, decorated with frequent bills from the bank and fights between him and Mathias, was nothing in compare. And so, he began to plan. To start over and flip to a new page in his book—perhaps one with Tino involved. To a better future, to a brighter life.

In sense, he'd left Mathias for Tino. It was almost crazy, for the Fin had never shown any signs of knowing Berwald's feelings towards him nor returned them, but once he'd actually taken his suitcase and walked out of the door, the Swede realised he'd done the right thing.

To a brighter future, as he told himself.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by a voice calling to him.

“Berwald!” Tino's face lit up as the Fin waved him over enthusiastically, eager to begin his usual chatting.

“Morin',” he greeted, heading over in long strides. As he approached, the man at Tino's side flinched momentarily.

Ah, of course. Tino's assistant and best friend, Eduard. Someone who, even after many reassurances from Tino, found Berwald quite scary looking. In truth, the Swedish man couldn't blame him—he was almost used to getting looks due to his intimidating glare and large statue. Almost.

“How are you?” Tino smiled brightly at him, slowly drawing himself away from the counter to stand in front of the Swedish man.

“Good,” Berwald muttered. “Ya?”

Tino grinned, a welcome sight in the early morning. “I'm good, thank you for asking!”

Berwald briefly wondered how Tino could speak so much and yet the perfect amount in such a short duration. In truth, if he had to admit it, anything and everything Tino did was almost perfect. Oh, Berwald knew how deeply in love he was with the Fin, and he knew the dangers of hiding such feelings. Even so, it wasn't like he could just turn around and walk out then and there. Could he?

He was brought back to reality by the sound of rustling. “The usual?” Tino asked him as the Fin stood up, holding a small bouquet of flowers wrapped in layers of shimmering, multicoloured paper.

Berwald nodded, reaching for his wallet. He sighed. Though he usually placed the flowers on the vase near his and Mathias' bed, today it would be different. He would go back to the crappy little apartment he found for a cheap price and gently lay the flowers down on the dining table, then sit alone and wonder about his life, his next step. Well, that was depressing.

Tino smiled brightly, thrusting the package his way. “Enjoy your flowers!” he said cheerfully, pocketing the small roll of cash Berwald handed over, tip included. The Swede was glad Tino didn't usually count the money he was paid—though it worried him that people may try to scam the Finnish man, Berwald was able to place in small extras from time to time. He hoped Tino was doing okay; for all the joy the flower shop brought, it was hardly a popular hotspot, being located on the outskirts of town.

 _Now or never, Berwald,_ he told himself as Tino began to turn away. _Ask him to go to coffee or something. Add in friends if necessary._

“Tino,” he began.

The addressed turned around with a small smile. “Yes?”

“Would you—“ He was sudden interrupted by the ringing of his phone, the standard ringtone that he had never bothered to change. He muttered a quick sorry to Tino, who nodded in understanding and padded back to Eduard. Frustrated that his plans were foiled, Berwald answered. “Hm?”

“Ah, hello,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Is this Berwald....” There was a pause. “Oxenstierna?”

Bewald decided to ignore the failed pronunciation of his last name. “Yes?”

“I'm calling about a Mathias Kohler?” the man on the other line sounded grim.

Berwald's heart, despite itself, skipped a beat. Mathias? But why...he had already made it quite clear that he and Mathias were over.

“What 'bout h'm?” Damn, his words always got mixed up the more distracted he got. Tino was now looking at him with ceased brows, drawn by the sudden intensity of the Swede's glare. Eduard disappeared out the back door with a few words to Tino and a small wave.

“What is your relationship to him?” the caller asked.

Oh, this was not going to be good. If he said ex, then whatever Mathias needed him for may not apply. Berwald wasn't that heartless; he had once loved the Dane and didn't wish for the other to be hurt or in trouble. But if he said boyfriend, then all his attempts with Tino...

“Wh't does it matter?” Maybe his words came out a little too harsh, maybe not. “Wh't happened?”

“I need to know before giving further information,” the faceless voice pressed. “This is Officer Arthur Kirkland on the phone.”

A police officer? Berwald's mind instantly went into overdrive. Oh, this was not good. Not good at all. Tino be damned, if Mathias had actually went and done something absolutely insane...

“Boyfriend,” he choked out. Out of the corner of his eye, Tino almost seemed to wilt. Then again, he was probably only imagining things. The Fin could probably care less.

Arthur seemed to relax. “He's been in a car accident,” he said primly.

A car accident? “Is he 'kay?”

“He is,” Arthur reassured. “But, Mr. Oxenstierna,”

There was a pause, long and choking. Berwald willed him to continue.

“He wasn't the one hit.”

Those few words shattered what had already been a crumbling memory of Mathias. The Dane had hit someone else? Was his spite really so strong?  
“Wh't happened to th' other car?” he demanded, attempting to keep Tino away from the situation. The flower shop owner looked concerned and had started edging closer.

There was a silence. A long, pregnant silence that sent poor Berwald's anxiety into the high heavens.

“One of the boys,” Officer Kirkland started. “He was a minor. His litigation guardian, Mr. Bondevik, has decided to take legal action. His surgery was successful and he's alive, but there was some...consequences. Mr. Kohler will probably be issued a large fine and have his license revoked.”

Berwald could feel a headache coming on. How did this happen?

“One more thing,” the police officer sounded uneasy, his British accent coming in tenfold. “Mr. Kohler was driving while under the influence.”

Ah. That explains it. Of course. After Berwald had left, Mathias had done nothing but call up Gilbert and go for a wild night of partying. And now he paid the price. Berwald could almost scoff, if not for the fact that someone was heavily injured.

“The boy,” he said, aware that Tino was slowly sliding along the counter. “He 'kay?”

“He'll be alright,” was the tight reply. “Recovering, but okay. Now, Mr. Oxenstierna, do you know of any relatives of Mr. Kohler?”

Mathias was never one to talk about anything other than himself and the future. “No.”

“How long have you two been dating?”

Berwald bit his lip. “A year.”  
“I see.” There was a rustle, as if something was being scribbled down on paper. “He isn't too badly injured.” Arthur said. “Three days from now, you can come and sign for his release. Then, we'll deal with legal matters.”

“Understood,” Berwald confirmed, and with a finality hung up. The reality of the situation suddenly dawned on him, and he sighed heavily.

“Mathias,” he murmured. “Wh't did ya do?”

“Um, is everything alright?”

Berwald jumped at the sound of Tino's voice, completely forgetting that the shopkeeper was still there. “Fine,” he muttered.

“No.” Berwald glanced up at the unusually firm tone coming from Tino. The smaller man crossed the space between them in a few quick steps, and looked up at the taller one. “You're not,” he said. “So tell me what happened. Who's Mathias? What did that phone call say?”

Berwald doesn't know if it's because the shop has a certain honest lure to it, or because of Tino's gleaming violets staring deep into his own, or just that he's been holding in so much stress and pain that he couldn't control himself anymore. Nonetheless, it all came rushing out—from meeting Mathias to realising it wouldn't work out to what just happened yesterday. He only omitted the part about be drawn to Tino—that he would admit when times were happier, less chaotic.

Halfway through his tale, Tino had smiled once he realised that their conversation wouldn't be brief. He'd silenced the Swede with a finger and a soft smile, then walked over to the door and flipped the cheery red sign with the words 'OPEN' printed boldly across to the other side, one with 'CLOSED' quite vibrant.

“What are you doing?” Berwald had asked.

“Come,” Tino had returned mysteriously, beckoning Berwald behind the counter. The Swedish man had followed, mysterious, and was soon lead into another room through the back door. Small and neat, he guessed this is where Tino and Eduard had their breaktimes. There was small table entwined by delicate chairs, and as Berwald slowly lowered himself onto one, Tino brought out a box of cookies and told him to continue.

And so he had. Alone with Tino, eating cookies and spilling out his life as the Fin listened intensely, Berwald felt a sense of peace he had not felt in a long time. All of the pressing matters of tomorrow and three days from now flew from his mind, and he realised that more than anything he enjoyed spending time with Tino. Whether it be friends for now or something more in the future, he hoped for another chance no matter what.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not updating for so long I'm awful I know  
> Either way, please enjoy!!

 

Lukas once swore to never have to see Emil suffer.

The Norwegian man sits by his brother's bedside, smoothing back the strands of silvery-blond hair that splatter across Emil's forehead. His fingertips press against hot skin, and he rests his hand on the Icelandic man's forehead for a few precious seconds before pulling away. His own deep blue eyes sting with tears and he stubbornly pushes his emotions back—he was always good at repressing his thoughts, after all. His eyes, without his permission, travel down to the strikingly-white hospital blanket that drapes over his brother's legs, the wires that crisscross the sheets to adorn Emil's arms scattered in colourful strings.

The Norwegian man gave a heavy sigh, his head falling into his hands as fingers massaged through messed blond locks. A bandage on his cheek restricted him from grabbing his head closer and tearing at his hair—a way of dealing with anxiety he hadn't quite managed to pull through on quitting—and all he could achieve were a few blond, wavy locks that clustered around his shaking fingers. Lukas brushed them off with cold-hearted spite, watching his hair fall to the ground and lie there, limp.

Dammit! A sudden surge of anger makes him snap his head to the ceiling, but apart from the quick action his face is impassive as ever. Years of strict upbringing and loneliness had long taught him self-discipline like no other, a skill that had quickly come into play in the world he now lived in.

“Emil,” he said to the boy lying on the bed in front of him. Cobalt blue eyes swell up with unshed tears, blurring his vision as he reached forward and took his brother's hand in his own. His own shaking fingers pressed against a cool palm, unresponsive and chilling.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry I brought us to America.”

At first, the grandiose country sounded like a dream come true. A place for new beginnings, a place a newly legal-aged Lukas had planned to move to and start a new chapter of his life, free from disapproving parents and classmates who acted vain and selfish. And of course, his beloved brother Emil had to come along. Attached to the hip ever since his parents had brought a young Icelandic boy home from the adoption centre, a young Lukas had been the one to teach Emil how to walk, read, write, and draw. When Lukas told his parents of his plans to move to America, they had agreed with smiles that swelled with pride. Their baby boy, all grown up and moving to start a man's life in a prospering country! He would be the talk of the neighbourhood, his photos from America he sent to home shown to relatives all around the Nordic countries.

At first, they expressed doubt at Lukas taking Emil with him. Emil, who was two years his junior, was nineteen to Lukas' twenty-one, and just starting his university degree in social welfare. They fretted constantly over what may happen to their beloved boy in a strange new land.

However, Lukas had taken both of his parents aside and gave them his word, swore a man's oath—to his father's pride—that he would protect and serve his younger brother. That he would work to give them a new start in a new country, help pay for his brother's school funds so he would become the shining star of the family, the beloved and enlightened new generation.

And now . . . his younger brother lay in a hospital bed, his legs unresponsive. In an accident that was never meant to be, an accident that could have been avoided if Lukas opted for taking the bus after work instead of demanding Emil drive to pick him up. If only he'd allowed Emil to drive back—imagine that, he'd told his younger brother not to drive on the way back because it was dangerous—then maybe their situations would be reversed, that he would be the one rightfully suffering.

Lukas feels a tear slide down his cheek and is surprised when he reaches up to feel a wetness on his cheeks. Sniffing, the male draws a sleeve across his face—bandage be damned—and quickly backs out of Emil's hospital room, a terrified look on his face. No, if he stayed any longer . . . he'd burst into tears, he was sure of it . . .

So he runs. He walks at a fast pace through the hospital rooms—the rules say no running, and Lukas was always a sticker for rules—and arrives at a vending machine set up in the lobby. Thinking he should buy a cool drink to calm him down and one for when Emil wakes, and as he reaches down for his pocket he suddenly remembers—right, he was in a hospital gown. They'd taken his clothes and stuck him in the damn thing after ripping shreds of metal from his leg—giving him a limp and a wince for quite some well—and set him up in a bed.

However, as soon as he was able to move, Lukas had hopped from the bed and immediately sought out Emil, who was recovering from surgery. The nice had been surprisingly gentle, leading him to his brother's room and drawing the curtain to give them some privacy. Then, she retrieved a clipboard and read to him Emil's injuries.

Small cuts and bruises along the side where the car had rammed into. Lukas gave a sigh. A large gash on his arm from when the window broke and jammed itself into his skin. Lukas closed his eyes. Bad whiplash. Lukas folded his hands in his lap, staring at the three broken fingers bandaged together. Broken arm. His okay hand curled and uncurled into a fist, ignoring the slices on his wrists and arm where he'd shielded himself from the flying debris and glass.

Broken spine. And Lukas stood up, knocking over the stool. He stared at the nurse, wide-eyed, refusing to believe. Then, suddenly, everything clicked into place. How only a few people had attended to him, bandaged him up. The nurses had been unusually kind, offering him words of solace he'd thought strange at the end. How long he'd waited in the lobby for Emil's surgery to finish. And how, even after a day later, his little brother didn't wake up.

_I'm sorry, Mr. Bondevik. Your brother will never be able to walk again._

_Never._

_Never._

Lukas used to think he didn't believe in the word  _never_ . Surely, time was not so cruel. No matter how infinite, there was no such possibility something could simply  _not_ happen,  _never_ happen. He would believe in no, have faith in someday, but he wouldn't accept never. There was just no way.

Yet, there he was. His mask crumpled as quickly as he'd tried to keep it aloft, and soon he was sobbing like a little child, standing in the middle of Emil's room, shoulders shaking.

_Please wake up,_ he'd tell his brother that night.  _Wake up, wake up, I need to talk to you, I need you to look at me—!_

The doctors escorted him out, telling him not to cause any unnecessary strain to himself. He'd spent his first night at the hospital curled up on his bed, shaking with sadness and fury.

Whoever had done this, he promised himself. Whoever had done such a thing to his baby brother . . . he'd find them and make them suffer.

* * *

 

 Tonight, he wanders the halls. He doesn't feel like going back to the lobby—what use was standing there, staring at the Cokes he could never have, anyways?

He knows he won't sleep until much, much later. Instead, he wanders into another wing. The emergency room,  he realises. T he curtains are the same. All blank blue sheets drawn  in rows, each section lining up with the other. He's just about to turn back and leave; snuggling into his blankets and attempting to forget this all happened sounded like a very, very good idea, when he hears a shuffling.

Frozen, Lukas' head snaps towards the centre of his attention—from one of the beds, a tall figure emerges from the darkness, pushing the curtain aside. A blond male is revealed, very nicely built with  an  aristocratic  face and  a naturally bold statue. The newcomer sighs, pushing a hand through his blond locks—which stand strangely on end, as if held up by a force that rejected gravity. Though his hair would appear more pronounced gelled and properly fixed, Lukas can't help but feel a certain . . . attraction that brings a flush to his pale skin. Though he'd become comfortable with his and Emil's sexuality a long, long time ago, he still felt it strange whenever he felt a certain . . . urge. Admittedly, he wasn't full out attracted to the person—but looks did account for something, and this male was certainly very good looking.

The stranger seemed to notice him for the first  time.  Cerulean eyes blink as the man shifts his weight towards Lukas, tilting his head slightly.

“Hi,” he greets, taking a step forward.

Just as he walks, Lukas instinctively draws back. His own cobalt gaze meets the stranger's, and he finds he can't find the will to turn back now.

“Hello,” Lukas replies, his monotone drawl perfected. “I—I was just leaving.”

The other blinks at him; once, twice, slowly as if trying to comprehend something internal. There's a brief flash of something that crosses the other's face, then the attractive newcomer is speaking again. “What are you doing up so late?”

Lukas shrugs, unsure how to react. He takes his time forging a reply. Keeping an eye on the hall for any wandering hospital staff. “Couldn't sleep?” It comes out as more of a question than anything.

To his surprise, the stranger laughs. He shakes his blond head to and fro,  curling locks falling into his face as he did so. “You and I both,” he says, then offers a halfhearted grin. “I'm Mathias.”

“Lukas.” The Norwegian man gives a slight nod. “Nice to meet you,” he adds hastily as an afterthought.

“Returned,” Mathis tells him, his grin growing wider. “So. What's on your mind?”

Lukas shoots him a glance. “I'd rather not say,” he snaps bitterly, glancing at the floor. What was with this guy, getting so personal?

There's a silence that makes Lukas look up, and he sees Mathias looking at him with a certain  _something_ in his eyes. “And you?” Lukas questions, wanting to divert the attention. 

Mathias holds up his hands, smirking. “I'll respect that,” he says, “but I'm afraid it goes both ways. I don't exactly want to talk about what got me in here, either.” He ends that sentence with a wince, and for a second Lukas is curious beyond belief. What exactly would have Mathias, a perfectly fit specimen, be doing in a hospital ward like this? 

“Suit yourself,” he says back, biting his tongue. A hospital was a place of silence and tragedy, hardly  somewhere to stand and share life stories.

“So, Lukas,” Mathias starts, and Lukas ignores the way his name seems to just roll from Mathias' tongue. “What do you suggest we do?”

Lukas snorts. “We?” he says before he can control himself; if he doesn't chase Mathias off in five minutes, it'll be a new record. “I have no idea,” he talks again, this time a mere murmur.

“We!” Mathias agrees, surprisingly optimistic. “You and I are locked in a hospital and we have an entire night to waste. It's better than being lonely in a ward, don't you think?”

“I think this is illegal,” Lukas replies with a blank stare, and to his surprise Mathias only gives him a laugh. Like pearls ringing off the pristine white walls of the room, Lukas thinks, before chiding himself for being so foolishly poetic. Still, it felt good that his natural pessimistic monotone seemed to be welcomed rather than hated, he admitted. 

“There are things far worse,” Mathias replies, and then there's a split second where something darker flashes across his features, and once again Lukas finds himself wandering into the mystery that alludes Mathias. Just what happened to land him in here? Lukas hoped he wasn't talking to a drug lord that had overdosed or something. Just maybe.

“That doesn't mean you should be breaking the little rules,” he huffs in response, and then immediately regrets his answer when Mathias seems to drop, the tips of his hair sinking as he regards Lukas with a look akin to a sad puppy. The Norwegian bites his lip, cursing his tongue. “But—“

Before he can speak, Mathias suddenly interrupts him. “Want a soda?” the blond man asks, saving Lukas the humiliation of having to awkwardly apologise—he was never good at such things.

The Norwegian man blinks. “Sure,” he finds himself saying, and then he's shuffling beside a cheerful Mathias, who leads their way through the halls in nothing but a hospital gown. As he approaches the light, Lukas sees gauze wrapped around his arms, the white fabric disappearing into the crevices of the gown.

_A fight?_ He blinks and looks at Mathias' retreating back.  _Or . . ._ he swallows.  _An accident?_

Great minds think alike, and it's not soon before Lukas notices Mathias regarding him with the certain strange-eyed look Lukas had been giving him moments ago. The Dane pauses. “You all right?” he asks, gesturing to the bandages that squirmed their way from one arm to Lukas' cheek, where a stray shard of glass had embed itself quite nicely.

_You might have a scar,_ the hospital nurse had told him. 

Lukas swallows. “We're not talking about that, remember?” he chides. “Besides, I could ask you the same thing,” he adds halfheartedly, intending it as a joke more than anything.

Only. Mathias doesn't laugh as expected. The blond man gives a harsh nod and a loud swallow, forcing his gaze ahead as he walked further away from Lukas. The Norwegian man pauses, confused, before rushing to keep up with the taller's fast pace. 

There were a lot of mysteries circling his new . . . acquaintance? Friend? Lukas didn't know for sure. Needless to say, their causes for being in this hospital was to remain a mystery. Lukas ground his heels into the hospital floor, lecturing himself. They were only staying until Emil got better—which, he told himself, would be soon, would be in a few days and then he'd see his younger brother like always—so there was no need to get personal with anyone. Once they exited the hospital, he was likely never to see Mathias again. 

Ahead, Mathias has stopped and now is looking at the very vending machine Lukas had stood what felt like only minutes ago. Lukas stops a while back and watches with amusement as Mathias bends down, presses the button, then straightens up and turns to Lukas with a sheepish smile. 

“I don't have money,” he says.

Lukas shrugs his shoulders, wanting to save the other from unnecessary humiliation. “That's okay. Neither do I.”

They ended up finding a bench to sit out, a wooden, rickety thing that sat outside of the waiting rooms. Lukas gulped and tried not to think of Emil being rushed here on a stretcher, instead focusing on Mathias, who seemed to be preoccupied with telling a legendary story of his battle with the nurse and hair gel.

“So I told her I needed it to keep my image fresh, that if anyone visited they wouldn't know it was me unless my hair was gelled,” the blond man was saying, waving his fingers in the air to emphasize. Lukas watched with a disapproving glance that only made Mathias smile as he continued on. “And she tells me that it'll get everywhere—and you know what I told her?”

Mathias pauses and looks at Lukas expectantly, the Dane's face illuminated by the midnight hallway lights. Lukas opens his lips, but finds his voice has died in his throat.

“I told her I needed to look nice for anyone I might find in here,” Mathias finishes, then uncomfortable silence takes over as the Dane waits for a reaction. 

Lukas gulps and nods, forcing a little smile at the confused other. “There's not really anyone here who would care if your hair was up or not,” he replies, briefly pausing to wonder if such a thing might be considered an insult. He never had a way with words, and he found the more he liked a person the crueler he would be, for some reason. 

Wait, the more he liked a person . . .?

Lukas doesn't have time to ponder on the meaning behind his thoughts before Mathias scretches and yawns. “Whew,” he says, attempting to strike up conversation again. “I'm getting tired.” 

Lukas watches as the taller slumps down on the bench, his eyes beginning to glaze over with sleep. Sighing, the Norwegian man nudges his companion.

“C'mon,” he says, noticing that just a faint trace of affection has crept into his voice. “You can't sleep here.”

Mathias mumbles something back that Lukas doesn't quite catch, but the Dane obeys and slowly gets on his feet. The two begin the trek back, this time with Lukas in the lead. A silence falls between them once again—comforting to Lukas, honestly. 

Once they reach the ward where Mathias is being kept, the man turns around and stops. Once again, he shuffles a hand through his hair. 

“I had a good time,” he says. 

Lukas feels himself nodding along. “And I too,” he replies, suddenly feeling a chill in the chamber.

Mathias notices. “You should get back to your ward,” he says, then murmurs as an afterthought, “blankets are nice.”

Lukas rolls his eyes, scoffing at the childish remark. “They are,” he says. “Go back to bed.” 

Just as he turns around, Mathias calls after him.

“Wanna meet later?” 

Lukas pauses, then stops completely. He looks back and finds the idiot grinning, his face pressed into a wide smile and azure eyes sparkling with hope. 

_Why not._ “Okay.” Lukas plays along. 

“Drop by during the day!” Mathias calls. “As much as I like this whole Romeo and Juliet thing going on, it's better when there's people around. That way, we can ask for food too!”

Lukas scoffs. “This is hardly anything Shakespeare,” he says, but gives a halfhearted smile. “Food it is. I'll come by tomorrow.”

“Sure it is!” Mathias replies, and his long woven tale follows Lukas out of the ward. “Think about it. Two young men, meeting in a hospital. Each a mystery to each other. And one has a really cute butt. Who knows what'll happen in the future?” 

“Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling sequel,” Lukas replies back dryly. “That is if we'll even have any viewers left.”

Mathias simply winks at him, resulting in another roll of the eyes and sharp remark, before Lukas disappears from slight as if blown away by the wind behind a blue curtain.

* * *

 

Hidden from view, the Norwegian man allows himself to relax a bit, sighing. Well, that was certainly interesting. Mathias was an . . . energetic guy, to say the least.

There were worse ways to spend one's second day at a hospital. Content, Lukas makes his way back to his and Emil's shared room, and pauses just as his hand touches the knob.

Was Emil still sleeping? Had he awakened, frightened and alone, wondering where his big brother was?

_You're flattering yourself,_ Lukas tells himself, then gives another deep sigh. Tomorrow . . . though it would be nice to see Mathias again and ask just what he meant by that Romeo and Juliet comment, at the same time the short blond was burdened with gulit and sadness. Tomorrow, he'd have to meet with the hospital staff and his lawyer to decide how he would take action against the car who had hit them.  _Sue the bastard,_ Lukas told himself bitterly.  _Make him pay._

Yet he knew deep down no sum of money could ever make up for Emil's condition. There was just no way for things to revert back to the way they were before that fateful night, when Lukas' silly mistake had been the cause of all this.

_Goddamnit_ , he told himself.  _Why didn't you just take the bus?_

He was angry. Angry at himself, angry at the hospital staff, angry at his blank-faced lawyer who was all-too-kind and all-too-accepting, as if this sort of thing happened all the time and they were only another case to be put away in his files after this was all over. This was a life, he wanted to scream at everyone, but he knew nothing could make it any better. It was a life, but what good was humanity if nothing could ever be done?

Lukas yanks the door open rather forcefully, struggling inside the room. Emil lies on the bed, motionless, and the atmosphere chokes the Norwegian man. Guilt is everywhere, demons of the past. He wants to shake his brother, call to him and tell Emil that he was stronger than this and to please,  _please_ walk—but all Lukas succeeds in doing is falling onto his bed in a mess. 

He was so, so angry, and so, so sad. And there was one man responsible for all of this.

 

 


End file.
